8 posts from 2007

    Every one of my Christmases run together in a pleasurable blur: gifts and packages wrapped in flamboyant hues of red, green, gold, and even pink, scattered artfully beneath the heavy branches of our usual long-needled Christmas tree.  My two brothers and I used to spend several hours each year arranging and rearranging our presents until they created a satisfactory flow, that is, until the next visit from the UPS man brought on another box of mysteriously shaped gifts and our mosaic was begun all over again! 

            Decorating the tree required the same amount of painful meticulousness.  Every branch was to have an ornament, and every ornament a branch, and under no circumstances could the final outcome give any appearance of lopsidedness.  If the front had six red glass balls, the unwritten decree was that the back should have six red glass balls too.  As for stockings, one wouldn’t have even dreamed of hanging them before Christmas Eve!  All these “rules” were laid out not by our parents, but by us, their children.  We found some unsounded delight in scientifically laying out our holiday; planning, carrying out, and rejoicing at the successes.  Either way, I doubt our parents would have been much concerned whether or not we continued on in our assiduous preparations. 

            Besides our mania with these fixed and unspoken statutes, our holidays brought many other diversions: baking for random (occasionally unknown) neighbors to whom we sang carols with indiscriminate enthusiasm, sometimes bringing forth the most unexpected bursts of friendliness and heartwarming cheer.  These gusts, however, were short-lived affairs that usually subsided by the time we were out selling wrapping paper for our baseball teams.  But in those festive moments accompanied by hot chocolate and a sampling of our offerings no one seemed to remember the refutations of the previous spring.  However, as delightful as these memories are to linger over, I find little distinction from year to year.  There is one Christmas, however, that stands out in my mind most prominently; a day too special to forget because it so significantly changed my life.

            Christmas day 1994 began as many others had in the past.  Six o’clock came and I was already awake, my suffering relieved only by the thrill of anticipation.  Quarter to seven found me creeping across the hall to see if either of my brothers were up yet.  We spent the remaining forty-five minutes bearing the agony in whatever way we could: speculating as to the contents of several inviting packages that waited what seemed like hours away for anxious fingers to tear them open; discussing if Santa Claus had indeed eaten the cookies this year and if he would accept our letter of apology for having forgotten to leave out enough carrots for the reindeer last year; and of course, when would mom and dad get up!?  Here was the first divergence from our typical Christmases though, because mom wasn’t here this year.  Nine months and three weeks pregnant, my mother had finally been driven to the hospital, through a snow storm, to be induced into labor.  Complications had forced her to stay there through Christmas, and as far as I knew, nothing had happened yet.

            “Dear Lord, please let it be a sister!” I had prayed time and time again, but with especial fervor the last few days.  I was the only girl up to this point, six years old and sandwiched between two rowdy brothers, who, though fun to play with, cared little for “royal tea parties” and dressing up to play “court” or “house”.  Both were very imaginative themselves, yet simply chose to direct their attentions elsewhere (war games and weapon construction). 

            Seven-thirty was not five seconds old before we had sprung into action.  Like high-strung racehorses, the instant the gate clicked open we were gone, thundering down the stairs, slowing just enough make the corner around the banister.  Traditionally we attack the stockings first.  This year was no different.  Our onslaught gained momentum at the sight of the three lumpy stockings, sagging heavily from their hooks on the mantel piece.  Ian and Bruce raced ahead of me and tore relentlessly in past the red and green corduroy cloth of the oversized sock, but something caught my eye, and oddly enough, I stopped.  Standing there beside the tree in my blue footless blanket-sleeper a tingle coursed up my spine and reverberated in the hollow of my chest.  The giggles and joyful gasps of my two brothers seemed distant, illusory, even the fire in the wood stove crackled and radiated surreally.

            My eyes had fastened on my stocking.  Pinned to it was a button bearing the message I had so feverishly hoped for.  It’s A Girl!!!!!!!!!  It screamed in pink.  A girl!  What you’ve been waiting for!  All that you had asked for!  The one thing!  It’s true, it’s real!  Yesssss!  Meanwhile my two brothers had paused for a moment to watch my silent revelry.  With shaking hands I fumbled to unfasten the button, but it was more than my eager little fingers could manage.  Gently, kindly, my dad popped the clasp and worked the sharp point out of the soft, red corduroy. 

            “Here you go, Pip.”  He said, pressing the button into my small hand.  He was smiling, a warm, happy smile.

            “Thanks Daddy.”  I replied.  I reached up to give him a hug, smiling myself.  He gave me one of his big bear hugs in return and I buried my cold nose in the warm plaid flannel of his pajama collar.  He smelled of freshly brewed coffee, the kind they grind at the general store every morning to make the air smell of Africa and Peru.  I could still smell wood smoke and bee’s wax in the cloth.  He had read the story of the first Christmas by candlelight the night before, and even now the fragrance of Yankee Candle’s vanilla hazelnut lingered on.

            With a satisfactory sigh I curled up in the pink recliner near the fire, my pin still clasped in my hand.  My cheek brushed against the soft lamb’s skin throw draped over the back of the chair, a swathe that would soon enwrap my sister.  In contented silence I relished in these comforts: the spicy aroma of sausage baking in the Christmas casserole, steeping apple cider swirled with cinnamon sticks, the music of Christmas carols intermingled with the muffled howl of a December wind capriciously whipping snow flakes about.  But I was safe inside, warm, conscious of all these sensations.  While the snow swirled the last lingering notes of Oh Holy Night gave way to strains of Handel’s Messiah, For unto Us a Child Is Born. 

...coming soon!...

     Apparently I am annoying. Not to excess, but enough to inspire my overtaxed roommate to comment, "You know you don't have to sing all the time." Sorry. I didn't realize I was even making noise. This scene is actually a common occurrence in our room though, so nobody is offended if I need reminding to put a cap on it. Ask a number of my friends and they will tell you that I am often heard before I am seen. That was absolutely metaphorical. There isn't an ounce of actuality in it. Indeed, I am easily spotted from afar, and not heard so well at all. But, oh best beloved, consider the point made: I am the human itunes. There is a theme song for every situation, I am convinced. If it doesn't yet exist, I hum one up on the spot. The majority of the time it is an unconscious act. I suppose because I find it only natural to be surrounded by music. One day, if and when a surgeon has need to slice me open, I wonder if he would find a variety of little black specks marching circles round my heart: quarter notes, half notes, whole notes, grace notes, rests, bass clef, treble clef, and pedal notation. If it were brain surgery, the sound might even be louder than my own power of projection because there is always music in my head.
    Music in my head and dancing in my body. Don't ever put me under a secret surveillance camera. Alone or in public, in conversation or class, my arms begin a port de bras while my foot slides to tendue. That, or the hip sway begins, followed by samba variations. It's impossible to bore me. I am surprised my friends aren't embarrassed to be seen with me. Perhaps it isn't all that bad yet. Quite positively there are people out there who find my behavior quite unsettling. It isn't considered appropriate for polite company. Polite does not have to mean knotted in a corset thank-you-very-much, fingers wrapped around a tea cup. Politeness is defined as consideration towards the feelings and comforts of others. But why shouldn't movement and music be considered...this isn't going anywhere. I lost my words in the library somewhere. I wanted to go back to talking about my musical habits. More on this later, I promise.

    Bigger isn't always better; more "professional" isn't necessarily either. On occasion, the several gold framed degrees on a professor's wall have proven themselves, as Macbeth said, "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Ms. R----'s walls are not necessarily full of sound and fury, but their contents are no less than impressive. Concert notices and calligraphic credentials hang as the artistic focal points of her office, detracted from perhaps only by the two Yamaha baby grand pianos imperviously nestled side by side at one end.
    E---- is a dear, sweet lady. Her care for her students is as immaculate as her office. She is musically brilliant, wise in performance, and patient. I enjoy my lessons with her; we always have good laughs and make discoveries. Sometimes it's a little tedious though. Much of the stuff I'm playing now is not so serious as I would like to be. Maybe it's just because E---- knows not to overburden a wild-eyed freshman like me. I hadn't thought of that. She might be doing me a favor, come to think of it, but it feels like third grade. It would not be overburdening to face Rondo a la Turka, it would be a challenge. There is a difference. I won't tell you the number of times I slacked in practice out of boredom, waltzed in for my lesson, and proceeded to deliver the piece in smooth clarity. Not to brag, but I think I am ready for something harder (*pst* don't tell my mother, but whatever, I'm paying for it). Please, do not be deceived; E---- has taught me a lot and I am finally getting the hang of memorization which happens to be astonishing.
    However and anon...back to the theme of bigger isn't better. Yes, all of the above is quite nice, quite nice and quite expensive. In terms of economics, I can enjoy all that and so much more under the guidance of my other mom, Susan Mino, minus wringing pockets and overly-tame pieces. If you will pardon the colloquialism, Susan is the bomb! She is a momma bear and a piano lesson isn't just a piano lesson, it's a spiritually refreshing, wholesomely relaxing, therapeutic experience. She is the epitome of a home school mom - learning is everything and everything is learning, and darn it all if you even know you are in the midst of your education because it is so much fun.
    What more can I say? I suppose one doesn't realize a person's value until one stands back. Well, I'm standing back about 53 miles in South Hadley wishing to once again take lessons at Mrs. Mino's house; to sit at her rich, walnut upright while Zac writes Haiku in the kitchen, drinks cocoa, and stirs the soup, and Luci, cuddled under a blanket on the green couch, paddles through another Jane Austin.
Thanks, Mrs. Mino.

This happens seasonally; summer retreats southerward far away from fall breezes and with those breezes rides the first inklings of school...and with school, registration. A similar process occurs the ensuing November. The first throws of time-management syndrome are currently in full throttle and suddenly the world is demanding that you sort it all out...NOW! Though official declaration of a major is not required until spring of sophomore year, freshman year is still a painful process of discovery and denial. Perhaps a liberal arts school was really the wrong choice. College brings out the indecisive side of me; the more options I have, the fewer choices I make. If I had strictly chosen a major and a college devoted to it (as is required in Europe) I could have left all of my decision-making behind and pursued something with peace of mind. I might have looked back and regretted some, but not as much as I probably will now. Studying here allows me the opportunity to not only broaden my interests, but to continually feed them as well, much to my ultimate detriment as I cannot possibly pursue them all. And so I will have regrets. But will I have more regrets or fewer regrets than if I narrowed my focus early on? *sigh* There are regrets either way. Here is where my nerdy side enters. In Economics there is a principal called the opportunity cost which is defined as what you must forgo in order to gain something else. If you choose college, your opportunity cost is the money you could have earned if you chose to work. If you choose work, the opportunity cost is the education you forgo (with potentially higher benefits later on in life) in order to have money now. My opportunity costs, though they include components such as these, are much more complicated. Should I choose to pursue medicine I must give up my pursuit of the humanities. Should I choose music I forgo my aspirations as a linguist. Should I choose dance it would be with the understanding that I will doubtfully find a related job following graduation.
    It is the great dichotomy of my life: pursuing the dream vs. pursuing the practical out of necessity. I have come to one conclusion however, so please, do not lose all faith in me. If I choose to be completely practical then I will die unsatisfied and most regretful because all that I did was for comfortable existence and survival, essentially for myself, not for change or for others. If I follow the dream I might be poor, I might be in debt, I might be happy, or I could be too worried to be happy. Hard to say exactly. Heck, if I were Hindu I could tell you based on my previous life experience...though I don't suppose that frogs have very similar life experiences to those of humans.
     Regardless, I love college. It is not a waste of money even if I am running around clueless. It is my life. I only have one. Nothing is wasted as long as I am learning and experiencing. I believe experience is the key. Not for any particular reason. Experiences are just good to have. So, for now, should I look at the long run, or will I become too overwhelmed? I generally become overwhelmed when I do. Today I was hit by so many urgent possibilities that I had to sit down and just wait for awhile in the hopes that my head would not explode. Sounds silly I am sure, but it is true; my brain could not bear the blast of imagination that hit it. Life just isn't enough. If God included a satisfaction guarantee, I think I would have to write him and complain. After all, Noah and all his ancestors had several hundred years experience before their time was up. With a current lifespan of ~80, most Americans spend 1/4 of their lives in school (from 5-25). Just think how many years Methuselah could have spent studying, approximately 225 years! Now we're talking, God!!! Then there is the problem of sleep. If I didn't have to sleep I'd gain back about another 20% of my time. Oh, and if I didn't have to wait at stop lights, that's another +2%. Come to think of it, I'd like the ability to time warp too.
    Oh, well...it's 10:45. I suppose I aught to go start my "meaning of life paper" now.  

    I think I may have found a baby sitting job. One of the FP's lives across the street with her three year old son William. William spends his day's a Stony Brook, MHC's preschool, while his mother goes to class and works on her thesis. His father is still in school in Ohio studying to become a nurse but he comes up on weekends to be with his family. For Taylor, this means evenings at home. However, when we met in Spanish class and she discovered that I babysit, it opened up the possibility of a mutually beneficial working relationship, not to mention a great friendship. So now, I can walk to "work" in 10 minutes, put William to bed and study or watch movies, while she has a chance to enjoy a night on the town or dinner with a friend. It works wonderfully! And, when Taylor comes home we end in these interesting discussions about math, and undergrad major choices. She is a math major and a major brainiac. She already has a paper published and offers from universities for not only a full ride scholarship but the best school for her son and school as well as work for her husband. Pretty sweet! Mount Holyoke will do that to you.

    I've been meaning to mention a project I am currently involved in here at school. Every Tuesday a fleet van takes a group of girls to carry on a book club with the inmates of the Westfield Youth Detention Center. Seven of us volunteered at the beginning of this year as a way to build relationships with people that we would otherwise not connect with. It's an interesting kind of work. These boys range in age from 13-18, though most tend to be about 16 years old or so. The majority are second generation citizens - their parents fled from Cuba, Puerto Rico, and Mexico to find hope in a foreign land. They themselves are as varied as their crimes. Some smoked or dealt pot, or stronger drugs. Others picked one too many fights, or drove without licenses. But it's hard to think of them as criminals once you get to know them. What they really are are lost boys, boys without proper families, with 6 siblings who each have different fathers, who don't trust anyone because up until now there hasn't been anyone that they could trust. Some of them get out and change, some of them are back in a matter of weeks. Our leader, Julie, refers to a few of them as "the regulars." In her three years with the group a couple of the same boys keep cycling through because there is nothing to hold them steady.
    In our small groups (one or two students per two or three residents) read selections of poetry, lyrics, and
  and short prose and use the ideas as seeds for conversation. Supposedly we go in there to discuss books, but really, we go in there to build friendships under the guise of literature. The discussions hold relative to the topic at hand for perhaps five minutes but then for the remainder of the hour and a half wanders to themes more relevant to these boys.
    The odd thing is that I always come dragging my feet. I have so much to do, I think. I don't have time for this. And then I arrive, and when it's time to leave I don't want to go. I feel I am just beginning to know them. And somehow it feels wrong to walk out with my feet unshackled and my arms free to swing at my sides, to return to campus and a school that, for some reason, decided I was worth their time and money.  And they sit behind glaring barbed wire chain linked fences waiting for Someone to change their lives. They don't know that's what they are waiting for, but it's the only way they will ever make it. It actually hurts my heart to walk out. There is a real, and intense, ache every time I hear the latch chunk down and see the door swing wide and I have to accept my freedom. Only God knows why we are in the places we are.

    Sudden urges to visit the WC pulled me from my dreams this morning at about a quarter to eight. My intention had been to sleep in until until at least 8:45 (I have a 9:15 class) but the need to rise would not let me be, so I rose. Groggily I stumbled to the door, pulled it open, and stopped dead in utter confusion. The portal was covered from floor to ceiling in newspaper and tape. Thin pink and green letters angled down the middle. Is this some kind of belated birthday prank? I wondered. My eyes were too far closed to make out whatever word it was that the pink and green letters formed. Actually, it was several words. A little head shake and a hard look crumpled the last of my dreams and knocked the the remaining crumbs of sleep from my eyes. YOU'VE BEEN ELFED!!!!! screamed the now clear pink and green letters. Outside the door and beyond the newspaper rose a pile of candy and spa trinkets - oils and face scrub, polish and spritz. "
    "Victoria!" I whispered. "Victoria!" I was practically dying from gigglement. "You've got to see this," I urged. My poor, sleepless roommate turned to the wall and shoved her pillow over her head. I tried a little louder while "happening" to bump into the wall and trip over some shoes. *thud-clomp* With a regretful sigh she turned over.
    Once  outside the door my giggles had turned full laughter. There were pictures of gorgeous men taped all around the doorway with captions such as "Oh, I think I see Barbara in the distance," or "I hope that hottie Victoria likes my sweater." My personal favorite shows a man sitting part way up a spiral staircase with a little thought bubble: I hope Barbara is at the top of these stairs. The bathroom, too, was covered in magazine clippings with more hilarious captions. Every girl had at least four with her name and some sort of an ego-boost. We stood just staring and giggling, the lot of us, for a good 15 minutes, wiping tears of hilarity from our eyes. I think it was the best Monday morning of my school career. I have nothing against Mondays, but this one in particular I was not looking forward to as it was to be very busy. But all day long, every time I popped into my room to exchange books or change clothes, their was my entourage, waiting dreamily for me.

How long has it been...three weeks, a month? It's been enough time for me to realize that I really cannot write to you all the way I said I would, so, this is my brilliant alternative. Well, it isn't really my brilliant alternative, it's Zac's. His year in Finland makes it rather difficult to keep in touch with everyone so he created a blog for himself to keep all interested up to date. It works perfectly for me...except that I'm already struggling with the urge to make it something "composed." It's a bit frightening to put unedited and unpolished and hardly-though-about work up for everyone to see. Frankly, I think some of it abominable; but, if you're ever going to know what in the world is happening in South Hadley, I guess I will just have to put up with it! Remember, I'm doing it for your sake. See, I'm already contradicting myself. Oh dear *sigh*.

Really though, this could be quite exciting. I might actually learn how to use the computer for something other than Microsoft word, email, and facebook. Oh yes, I figured out solitaire too.

But...---> ---> ---> To the Point!

Week 1:
THE most exciting week of my life! I met sooo many girls from sooo many different countries, more than I had in all of my life to date. That week I ate dinner with girls from Ghana, sat next to girls from Japan in orientation, discussed racism in small group with girls from Zimbabwe and the Philippines. There are something like 24 countries represented in our student body of 2,000. By "represented" I mean that there are several students from those countries, not one or two. Ghana sent a minimum of 15 girls, China sent something like 50+.

Within the first few hours of arriving I met a Christian girl from California who stayed with me through the afternoon and cheered me up when my parents and sister drove away. It was most unexpected, but as the van pulled away, a wave of utter abandonment crashed over me. Here my family was leaving me, where I knew no one and no one knew me, in a place totally unfamiliar (campus tours don't count. they only show you the pretty stuff), and without so much of a clue as to what I should do next. Of course I knew those where only feelings of a fleeting moment and that I was in for an incredible year, still, I couldn't help but notice. Meredith, a very sweet and outgoing girl comforted me with hugs and then lots of distractions and before we knew it we were again wrapped up in the flurry of First Day.

I could write to you for hours about the crazy and fascinating things that happened first week. Suffice it to say that when I finally came to the conclusion that I would like Mount Holyoke, I either didn't understand the true meaning of like, or I used the wrong word all together. I don't like Mount Holoke, I absolutely LOVE it!!! Begging pardon to both my parents, but I inadvertently refer to it as home. The group of girls on my end of the floor grew close even after only a few weeks together. We leave our doors open when we are in and pop in to visit, dance, sing, giggle, and have (i kid you not) random fashion shows. When parents sigh with relief that there daughter is attending an all girls' school, satisfied in that their girls won't have distraction, they fail to note one point, that all women are chatterboxes. We did nothing but talk for hours those first weeks. Our talks where serious too. We discussed politics, racism, morality, and our views on a woman's role in society. Surprisingly few here (that I have met) are extreme feminists, or feminists to the point of constant complaint.

Once classes began, things did settle down a little. Teehee! You will all most assuredly role your eyes when you here what I'm taking. To my delight I am now referred to as the "Renaissance Woman." This semester it was a bit difficult to register for classes but I swear that each of these fulfills some sort of a requirement: Spanish 200, Introduction to Microeconomics, Ballet I, West African Dance, Piano Lesson ( I do indeed receive credit for it), and a first year seminar called Making Things. Basically, it's an art class. But we don't just make things; we discuss the philosophy that comes along with art, which some how leads to psychology and sociology at times. It all depends on what we happen to be making. I have discovered a lot about myself through this class. But more on that later.

All in all, I feel as Columbus must have upon his arrival to the new world; 1) because everything is such a thrill, and  2) I can't understand what half the people are saying because of their accents. I really do try to learn the foreign names but a number of Chinese girls in my econ class have given up trying to teach me to pronounce their names and now insist on being called Kate. The whole lot of them!